


But then she goes, she goes by (in a corner of the sky)

by selflessbellamy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bellamy's POV, Cage Wallace is a fucking creep, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff (like... LOADS), Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Protective!Bellamy, Rated T for sex talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 20:44:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14818529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selflessbellamy/pseuds/selflessbellamy
Summary: Here’s the thing about Clarke Griffin:She always strikes you like a lightning bolt…(or the one, in which Bellamy knows his friend would never go with him to prom, but he'd definitely pretend to be her boyfriend for a night. If she asked.)





	But then she goes, she goes by (in a corner of the sky)

**Author's Note:**

> title from the song 'seagull' by aquilo.

Here’s the thing about Clarke Griffin: _She always strikes you like a lightning bolt…_

A single flash of gold before the overwhelming radiance takes you out, but what the hell, Bellamy’s used to it by now, so he simply tumbles back a little, regaining his balance as gracefully as he can whilst wrapping his arms around her waist. He laughs a little into her hair, ignoring the pointed looks from his friends that cut into their space, their _bubble._  

“Got your SAT’s back, Princess?”

After five years of close friendship, Bellamy has learned to read her mind, even when it’s closed off by black curtains, which is why he always holds her before she starts crying — knows which flavor of ice cream she wants just by looking at her, can tell what she’s thinking without needing to ask. 

“Yeah,” she beams, the sight softening his heart, because it always makes her eyes look like sapphires, the light pouring through them. “I killed it!”

 _Of course she did… Like she kills him every day, too._ Metaphorically speaking, of course. Unless video games count, since she slays him in them almost every time, without hesitating. _Damn._  

To annoy her a little, he gives her a pat on the head, making her pout. Since last summer, she’s been frustrated that their height difference has increased, so she can no longer ruffle his chaotic, curly hair without rising to her tippy toes. Closing her hand around his wrist, she bats him away before she asks, “Have you gotten yours back yet?”

“Nope. Hopefully tomorrow though.”

Wishing him good luck, she places a quick kiss to his cheek, then spends a good twenty seconds expressing her dread for her upcoming Chemistry lesson until he sends her away with a light push of encouragement, chuckling. _She’s so freaking cute._

When Clarke’s out of earshot, the first thing that Wayne — a burly fellow from his AP history class — asks is, “So… When are you going to tap that?” 

Disgusted by the blatant objectification, Bellamy whips his head around, shooting a glare that carries enough fury to burn down an entire city, and yeah, he goddamn nearly _growls._ Fuck, he wants to, but catches himself, considering that it will only make him appear territorial, and Clarke’s not his. She doesn’t belong to anyone. At all... She’s as free as the August breeze that dances across their skin every morning.

Smiling to himself, Bellamy has never been more certain of anything, because Clarke has spent the last five years showing off her fierceness, curious to see if it intimidated him. During one of their longer road trips, she screamed her lungs out over a cliff’s edge, so the roaring echo of her voice nearly sent tremors through the ground beneath his feet. She has walked miles with him along the train tracks until the soles of her shoes were worn, lifted her hands in the air while riding on the back of his motorcycle — but he was never intimidated enough by her independent spirit to let her go. Because of this, she found a life-partner with a lion heart — a friend who truly admires her.

“You should at least ask her to prom,” Miller chimes in, tearing him from his thoughts. Looking at him, Bellamy has to battle the urge to frown, although his eyes convey his feelings quite easily: _Not you too, Mate. You’re supposed to have my back, for fuck’s sake._

Shrugging, Bellamy looks down for a moment before sighing, “Guys, Clarke doesn’t even _like_ prom.” 

And with good reason… Bellamy’s already heard enough assholes whispering about bringing their illegally drunk dates to a hotel after the party. No, he doesn’t want to go either, but he supposes that Clarke would make it bearable. Well, if she _wanted_ to go, that is…

 

* * *

 

Sprawled across her crispy, white bed sheets, Bellamy has devoted about twenty percent of his attention to biology rapport on the laptop screen in front of him, because Clarke happens to be standing two feet away, frowning at the mirror as she alternates between holding two different dresses in front of her body.

In the end, she huffs, seemingly giving up before finally turning to Bellamy. “Burgundy or black?”

“Burgundy,” he replies instantly, cursing himself for not waiting at least couple of seconds to respond. However, it doesn’t appear to throw her off, as she just looks at that dress again, humming a little to herself, lost in her thoughts until she snaps out of it.

“It’s a little daunting, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, but you love daunting.” 

Well, that’s true, so for a moment she doesn’t say anything. Still, as Bellamy holds her gaze, the reason for her hesitation sneaks out between her lips. “Cage Wallace will be at the dinner. He’ll stare at my ass all night. I know I’m not supposed to care but—”

At that, Bellamy’s jaw clenches, the anger suddenly boiling in his stomach. “If he makes you uncomfortable, I can…” He trails off, worrying his lower lip, reminding himself that she doesn’t need a protector, because she’s Clarke Griffin, capable of murdering jackasses with a single look. 

Despite this, she urges him to finish the proposal, yet before he can do so, he has to swallow hard. “… I can come with you.” 

“And pretend to be my boyfriend or something?” She smiles slyly, making him wish that the awful word ‘pretend’ wasn’t stuffed into that sentence. Nonetheless, it only stings for a few seconds, because she agrees to the plan, then proceeds to take her top of right in front of him.

His throat begins to dry out, and he knows that it’ll soon be like the Sahara if he doesn’t turn his gaze away. So he does, scolding himself internally for even _thinking_ about ogling her. Fuck, if he could slap himself, he would. Hell would have to freeze over before he ever stoops to Cage Wallace’s level.

“Bellamy?”

Only then does he raise his gaze, fixating on her eyes, because it’s less risky now that she’s in her underwear. “Yes?”

When she glances at his clothes, he sheepishly realizes that he’s wearing sweatpants, which for sure isn’t the dress code for the fancy dinner service at Dante Wallace’s mansion. Quickly, he scrambles for his pants on the floor. “You sure it’s okay for you to bring someone?” 

“Of course. Everyone’s allowed to bring a plus one… There’s a nice white button up of yours in the bottom drawer of my dresser. You can wear that.”

 _Oh_ , he must’ve left it here at some point, even though he can’t remember when or why. Turning his back to her, Bellamy tugs his favorite shirt over his head, throwing it down on her bed as he teasingly asks, “What’s wrong with my blue Henley?" 

“Nothing. You know I love it,” is what Clarke replies without a hint of second thought. It causes him to stall for a moment before he buttons the fresh shirt, amazed at the faintest scent of Clarke’s everyday perfume on it. Unlike some other girls, she doesn’t go for the ‘candy shop’, sickly sweet fragrances — she always smiles like lemongrass or a field of roses. 

Once he’s put on the new set of clothes, he turns around, only to be stunned by the sight of Clarke in that burgundy dress, bending down slightly to look into the mirror as she applies some black mascara to her lashes. She’s wearing her golden, wavy hair down, which is a look that he adores. It suits her free spirit… 

Just as he thinks that she’s done, she applies some red lipstick in a shade that matches the color of her dress, and when she turns around, asking, “Too much?” he can barely form a coherent response. 

“Uh— No. It… It looks great.” 

He’s pretty sure that it could kill him before the night’s over, though.

 

* * *

 

Despite the fact that Abby Griffin is understandably surprised by Bellamy attending the dinner at the last minute, she’s always cared for him and therefore has nothing to say against it. After a fifteen-minute drive, they arrive at the mansion, which definitely isn’t an exaggeration: The Wallace residence is huge, maybe about four floors and with giant front yard.

Once they’re inside, Clarke links her arm with his. “You’re supposed to be my boyfriend, remember?” Because she sounds a little tense, Bellamy interlaces their fingers, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. 

No more than five minutes have passed before Abby’s out of sight, off to speak to some high-profile woman at the corner of the hall. That’s when Cage Wallace decides to cease the opportunity, striding towards Clarke, who quickly nuzzles Bellamy’s cheek, her whole body tensing against his, so he tightens his arm around her.

For some reason, Cage thinks he’s entitled to say, “I don’t believe you’ve ever introduced me to your boyfriend. Is it a new relationship?” 

Bellamy has to battle to urge to puke at the man’s tone of voice at that last part, because he sounds as if he thinks he has a chance to win Clarke over, which is just… fucking gross and delusional. Sensing Clarke’s skin grow hot in anger under his touch, Bellamy decides to respond for her, “No, actually not. We’ve been dating for three years now. I’m Bellamy Blake.” 

When Cage reaches out to shake his hand in civility, Bellamy sees this as an excellent opportunity to be as firm as possible, squeezing until he notices slight discomfort on the asshole’s face. _Good._ He _should_ be fucking uncomfortable. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can tell that Clarke battles a smile, which makes his heart twitch in excitement. That must mean that she’s not as nervous anymore, and seconds later this is confirmed when she brushes Cage off completely by turning to Bellamy. “Babe, I want you to meet Dante. He knows so much about art.” 

Unlike his son, Dante Wallace is a good man, but Bellamy already had that impression of him after listening to Clarke talk about him, how he offered her private art classes last summer because he thought she was talented, which she definitely _is._

Clarke paints like she talks, without hesitation, unapologetically. He loves every single piece just like he loves her… But his favorite has to be the only one she has ever done of herself. In it, she is asleep, almost falling off the side of the bed as her tangled morning hair covers her face. It’s authentic. It’s _her…_

 

If Clarke had been there to whisper with him about how pretentious that dinner was, Bellamy might not have survived it. Still, seeing even the slightest bit of fear flashing across Cage Wallace’s dickhead face was absolutely the highlight of the evening, and Clarke can only agree with that. 

Following him into her room, Clarke steps out of her high heel shoes and throws him carelessly towards the closet. They must’ve hurt her feet. Then she turns to him, a slight smile curling the corners of her lips upwards as she fixes the collar on his shirt. “Seriously, I owe you.” 

“No, you don’t—“

“Have you ever had oral sex before?” 

Well, you can put it this way: If Bellamy had been drinking something while she asked that, he would’ve certainly choked on it. For the first time tonight, he actually feels like the eighteen-year-old guy that he is as opposed to some puffed-up, intimidating fake boyfriend. Furrowing his eyebrows, he scans her face. “Jesus, Clarke…“ 

“Relax, it’s just a joke,” she replies quickly — Too damn quickly, if you ask him, as the words seem to stumble awkwardly out of her mouth like a… like a _save._

After staring at her for another minute, Bellamy excuses himself to go to the bathroom and splash some cold water on his face in attempt to get the image of her kneeling in front of him out of his mind. _No, no, no, NO._

 _Don’t fucking go there._ It’s uncharted territory, too hazardous.

But he wishes that it wasn’t. 

“Sorry,” is what he mumbles when he returns to her room, hyper-aware of the fact that his jaw is still slack. Clarke’s sitting at the edge of the bed, trying her best to look casual, and yet her fingers toying with the sheets give her away. He hates to see her like that, _embarrassed_ , because it’s so rare and so unnecessary. He loves her, for crying out loud! He... 

Without thinking, Bellamy blurts out, “Do you wanna go to prom with me?”

She immediately turns to him, looking as stunned by the sudden question as he is. Still, after blinking a few times in bewilderment, Clarke replies with a slight incredulous, “…Yes. ”

“Yeah?”

_What kind of alternate universe is this?_

At that, she smiles, which takes a lot of weight off his heart. Then she rises from the bed to walk to him, getting close enough that he can make out every single shade of blue in her irises. “Yes, of course.”

 

* * *

 

 

Long story short, in spite of everything, Bellamy and Clarke end up ditching the prom after barely an hour. Their laughter carried by the summer breeze, they get into his rusty truck and pull into McDrive to order two chocolate milkshakes. 

“Fuck, I hated the music, the drinks, the tacky decorations… Everything except—“ 

Bellamy catches Clarke’s eye as she stops herself, grinning in delight. “Me?”

“Yeah, everything except you, you giant dork.”

At that, he can’t help but burst into laughter once more, and it’s so warm that it could honestly create fog on the windows of his truck of it lasted long enough. Putting on their mutual Spotify playlist, this couple of prom-deserters drives to a field just on the outskirts of town and watch the other cars rush by as they drink their milkshakes. The open sky above them is covered in a blanket of stars, and he can’t help but think that this is the perfect spot for their first (yet unofficial) date.

It’s a good time to spill the secret; to make her happy…

Breaking the comfortable silence, he reveals, “You know… I got into Columbia.”

Instantly, Clarke’s eyes widen, her silence giving away that she’s as surprised as he thought she was going to be. When she rubs her arms, still speechless, he takes off his jacket and places it over her shoulders, hoping that it will shield her from the now-chilly breeze.

“Columbia?” She stammers, not quite believing it. For months, they’ve been preparing themselves for a separation, because Bellamy couldn’t afford to go to an Ivy League school, nor did he believe that he’d be accepted, but… apparently he was wrong.

Only when he smiles does she do the same. “Yes. I applied for a scholarship, and they granted me one.” 

Maybe it’s because of his good SAT score, or the fact that he’ll be the valedictorian of this year. When he told Clarke about it, she was torn between wanted to tease him for being _such a nerd_ and jumping in excitement for him. Still, her excitement over that announcement is nothing compared to this. 

_They are going to the same school… Holy fuck._

In that moment, the back of Bellamy’s truck feels like the top of the world — like a place where she could scream her lungs out. Still, despite the enchantment of the place, they head back to her house, and Bellamy can’t help but glance at the blissful look on Clarke’s face as she closes her eyes in the passenger seat.

 

 

On a starry night like this one, Clarke’s backyard looks like something from a fairytale, beautiful lights hanging from the trees, glowing like fireflies in the dark. Groaning, she throws her heels on the terrace, muttering a row of curses that crack him up. Traditionalists would undoubtedly call it unladylike, but _fuck_ that. He thinks it’s awesome. Clarke Griffin is _awesome._

“Hey…” He starts carefully, and she turns her head, pausing before walking into the living room through the glass door. “Do you wanna dance?”

When she closes the glass door again, his question is answered. Nevertheless, she can’t resist teasing him as she walks closer, interlacing her fingers with his. “To no music? You’re such a sap, Bellamy.”

For once, he doesn’t even pretend to be offended, simply mirroring her smile and pulling her closer after placing his hand to her waist. She’s wearing this gorgeous metallic blue dress that hugs her curves and makes her eyes look _electric._ It’s truly mesmerizing, a sight that nearly takes his breath away, because he can’t fathom how lucky he is to be holding her like this, to be swaying with her on the grass. 

Just as he’s trying to figure out how to say all of this to her, she rises to her tippy toes, resting her hand at the back of his neck before she kisses him. While the first touch is chaste, testing the waters, Bellamy quickly reacts, bending his head to meet her lips. She sighs, opening her mouth slightly to deepen the kiss, but because he doesn’t want to take this too far, Bellamy keeps himself in line.

They pull apart after a couple of minutes, their cheeks clearly flushed in spite of the darkness. 

“Wow. We did _that,_ ” Rubbing the back of his neck, Bellamy watches in awe as she giggles at his words. Clarke Griffin giggling. _Shit._ Someone should record it and play it for some fancy-ass musical experts — it would win a Grammy, no question. 

“… So do you wanna watch a movie?” 

“Oh yea,” a relieved sigh curls around that response, and he knows why. Neither of them is ready to go further, not tonight at least. Honestly, there’s no reason why they should, because they just discovered that they have plenty of years to spend together, to figure things out.

The social pressure to have sex as soon as possible is just fucking ridiculous, and they refuse to give in to it. Instead, they watch _The Mummy_ for the hundredth time, huddled together with their backs against the headboard of her bed. Feeling inexplicably happy, Bellamy presses a lingering kiss into the crown of her hair, watches her lips tip upwards at the touch.

“I can’t believe that you pretended to be my boyfriend for like, a couple of hours two weeks ago, and now you’re my _real_ boyfriend. That’s truly iconic.” 

He laughs, rubbing her shoulder, remembering that when they were thirteen years old and their friendship was new, he had a crush on her: The girl who didn’t want to be a princess, ever, who climbed trees and ran faster than all of the boys. Yeah, it’s definitely safe to say that Clarke Griffin always had a piece of his heart.

“Earth to Bellamy, are you doing okay? This is one of your favorite movies, and you’re not paying attention.”

His response is smooth as fuck. “Why would I pay attention to the movie when I can pay attention to you?” 

Still, she only deadpans, “Cute,” even though he notices the faintest shadow of a smile on her lips when she says it, so he takes that as a triumph. In reality though, the thing that has blown his mind is her referring to him as her boyfriend, because holy shit— He’s going to go to Columbia _dating_ Clarke Griffin, the most badass women he has ever known. They’re going hold hands and go to the movie theater to watch shitty dramas and laugh about them afterwards.

Without a doubt, he’ll have the time of his life. 

And the biggest reason for that is that she’s going to be right there next to him through everything.


End file.
